


till the stars fall from the sky

by ineffablemercury



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, just a tad angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-16 09:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablemercury/pseuds/ineffablemercury
Summary: The one where Aziraphale's jealous of the slutty waiter and Crowley is really just making things worse.





	till the stars fall from the sky

His name is David, and Aziraphale _loathes_ him.

 

Technically, he’s not able to feel hatred, or evoke it from humans, being an angel and all. Sure, he’d felt _occasional stabs of disfavour_ for those tourists who liked to touch his books, or those suited men who rattled on about flammability, or those young lads who liked to egg his shop on Halloween.

 

But he didn’t _hate_ them, no. There was a thick line between _disfavour_ and _hatred_.

 

This David chap, though, was edging closer and closer to that line.

 

Aziraphale first noticed it when the boy had picked up their menus, his hands brushing over Crowley’s for a bit longer than necessary. Then, he noticed it in the way David took their orders, staring at Crowley with a sort of... _lovestruck_ look on his face, but curling his lips when the angel tried to speak. And then, _as if that weren’t enough_ , David decided to top it all off by giving the demon some extra ponzu with his sashimi, sending Aziraphale a smug smile all the while.

 

It was _maddening_.

 

And Crowley, the bastard, _knew_. He knew _exactly_ how maddening it was, and he was playing along with it. He’d send the lad one of those roguish grins, or give him an obvious once-over in passing, just to get on Aziraphale’s nerves.

 

And Aziraphale is used to it, he is. He’s become accustomed to his demon drawing attention from men and women alike, getting ogled and approached and courted. He’s _used_ to it, really.

 

Doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.

 

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale starts, saccharine, once David has refilled their glasses and has started making his way back to the counter. The angel watches him out of the corner of his eye, studying the way he struts his hips and shakes his arse, vulgarly. Aziraphale suppresses the desire to make David trip over an inconveniently placed banana peel, and turns his attention towards Crowley once more. “My _dearest_... What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

Crowley, for his part, is brilliant at coming off as utterly clueless. He sends Aziraphale a glance, taking his eyes off the wine list. “Hm?”

 

Aziraphale sniffs, replacing his sweet simper with a stuffy scowl. “I’m not _daft_ , Crowley.”

 

Crowley leans back in his chair, attempting to come off as a hooligan and instead looking quite adorable. He mumbles something which sounds suspiciously like, _“You sure about that?”_

 

Aziraphale sends him a Look from over his spectacles, and the demon raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, _alright_.” He sits upright, and reaches for his wine glass. “But, _honestly_. I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.”

 

Aziraphale snorts unattractively, and then resists the urge to cringe at himself. “You’re- you’re _flirting_ with him!”

 

“With who?”

 

“With... _David_.”

 

Crowley sends him an amused smile, and takes a sip from his merlot. “You know, _for an angel_ , that tone of yours was rather, er. _Contemptuous.”_

 

“Was not!”

 

“Was too.”

 

Aziraphale scowls at him and takes a dainty sip from his chardonnay. “I refuse to partake in your childish bickering. Now, quit changing the subject.”

 

Crowley sighs, and then rests his elbows on the table, ignoring Aziraphale’s pointed glare. He was never one for table manners, anyway. “Don’t take it so _seriously_ , angel. You know I’m just playing around. Don’t mean anything by it.”

 

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably, and asks in a quiet voice, “Then why do you do it?”

 

For a moment, Crowley says nothing, and Aziraphale tries to burrow into himself, abashed. It’s not _surprising_ , this. He’d already suspected that Crowley was a tad embarrassed to be seen with him.

 

And why wouldn’t he be? They were complete opposites, after all. Crowley was slim and young and handsome and _fit_. He was the epitome of modernity, an attention-grabber, and rightfully so.

 

But Aziraphale? Oh, Aziraphale was _anything_ but. He was fat and short and stuffy and _horrendously_ old-fashioned. He was the type of bloke who many people looked over without a second glance, the type who was only memorable for his fitful kindness.

 

So Crowley had a right to be embarrassed, he did.

 

After a brief moment, Crowley opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly shuts it when an irritatingly familiar voice interrupts them.

 

“Hope everything’s been good,” David says, collecting their empty plates and stacking them on a tray. He refills their glasses, and in doing so, conspicuously slides a small folded napkin to Crowley’s side of the table. Then, he wipes their marble tabletop and relights the candle, never acknowledging the action.

 

He’s gone as quick as he’d come, with another one of those flirtatious grins and salacious struts. In a far, treacherous corner of his mind, Aziraphale can't help but think that Crowley and David would make a stylish couple.

 

Once the waiter is out of sight, Crowley looks at Aziraphale, down at the napkin, and then up at Aziraphale again. He unfolds the little square, and Aziraphale leans forward, trying to get a better look. It only takes him a split second to read what's written on it, and once he does, that _maddening_ feeling triples with a fervour.

 

It’s a cell number. _David’s_ cell number.

 

“Huh,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale doesn’t even need to look up, because he already _knows_ that there’s a snakelike grin on the demon’s stupid, beautiful face. “Would’ya look at that.”

 

Aziraphale says nothing, staring at those ten numbers, and the little heart which is scribbled next to them. He feels his own heart break, just a bit.

 

Crowley takes his silence as a sign of some sort, and sighs. “Angel...”

 

Aziraphale stays quiet, and swallows, turning his head away. He doesn’t see Crowley tear the napkin apart, too occupied with blinking back the wetness that’s gathering in his eyes.

 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and then repeats it with more emphasis when he doesn’t get a response. “ _Angel_.”

 

 _“What?”_ Aziraphale cringes at the roughness of his own voice, and then swallows once more. “What?”

 

“Look at me.” Aziraphale does, and is met with Crowley’s grinning face. He tries to turn his head away again, but Crowley takes hold of his chin and forces it to stay where it is. "You know I’ve only eyes for you, don’t you?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale feels as if the bricks which had laid upon his chest have been lifted. The assuring tone in Crowley’s voice is enough to ease that burden, that heavy weight, that _burning_ insecurity.

 

The demon lets his sunglasses fall forward a tad, revealing his usually concealed golden irises. Then, he actually _winks_ at Aziraphale, like a horribly written hero from a B film. “Quite literally.”

 

Aziraphale feels his lips twitch, and he opens his mouth to say _something,_ but then Crowley is leaning across the table, clearing it with a thought, and Aziraphale is only half aware that they’re surrounded by humans, because Crowley has pressed their lips together.

 

They’ve done this _so_ many times, on normal occasions, yet to Aziraphale, every kiss feels like their first. He’s _still_ running after the taste of Crowley’s lips, and he can _still_ feel that sweet grin against his own, like always.

 

 _“Crowley_...” he gasps, forcing himself to pull away and take a deep breath. He struggles to let the disapproval shine in his voice, because the fondness is overtaking it. “We’re in public!”

 

“And _when_ has that _ever_ ssstopped us?” Crowley scoffs, hissing slightly, and Aziraphale blushes, for he knows _exactly_ what the demon is insinuating. As he opens his mouth to accumulate a scolding response, Crowley grabs the collar of his jumper, and pulls him in for a _proper_ snog.

 

Aziraphale lets out a sound that is absolutely _not_ a squeak, and waves his hands around for a while, unsure what to do of them. Eventually, he goes on a limb and places them on either side of Crowley’s face, drawing out a noise of approval from the demon.

 

Faintly, Aziraphale thinks he hears the clatter of plates being dropped, and curses being muttered in a voice which sounds suspiciously like David’s.

 

He ignores it, and instead focuses on the delightful traces of ponzu and merlot in his lover’s mouth, feeling a tad accomplished.


End file.
